After a moment or two Betty slipped out of the room, leaving Radmore and Mr. Tosswill shaking hands quite cordially, if a little awkwardly.

“Well, sir, here I am again, turned up just like a bad penny!” And his host answered absently:—­“Yes, yes, Godfrey—­very glad to see you, I’m sure.”

Then, after he had shaken hands with Janet and Tom, they all stood together on the hearthrug waiting, so Radmore supposed, for the parlourmaid to come in and announce dinner.

But instead of that happening, the door opened and Timmy appeared.  “Will you come into the dining-room?  Everything’s ready now.”

They all followed him, three of the younger ones—­Tom, Dolly and Rosamund—­laughing and whispering together.  Somehow Timmy never associated himself with those of his brothers and sisters nearest to him in age.

Radmore came last of all with Janet.  He felt as if he were in a strange, unreal dream.  It was all at once so like and so unlike what he had expected to find it.  All these quiet, demure-looking young strangers, instead of the jolly, familiar children he had left nine years ago—­and, as he realised with a sharp pang—­no George.  He had not known till to-night how much he had counted on seeing George, or at least on hearing all about him.  Instead, here was Jack, so very self-possessed—­or was it superior?—­in his smart evening jacket.  He could hardly believe that Jack was George’s brother.

For a moment he forgot Betty.  Then he saw her come hurrying in.  Her colour had gone down, and she looked very charming, and yet—­yes, a stranger too.

The table was laid very much as it had been in the old days on a Sunday, when they always had supper instead of dinner at Old Place.  But to-day was not Sunday—­where could all the servants be?

Janet, looking very nice in the bright blue gown her little son had admired, placed the guest on her right hand.  To her left, Timmy, with snorts and wriggles, settled himself.  The others all sorted themselves out; Betty sat the nearest to the door, on the right of her father,—­lovely Rosamund on his left.

Timmy stood up and mumbled out a Latin grace.  How it brought back Radmore’s boyhood and early manhood days!  But in those days it was Tom, a simple cherubic-looking little boy of seven, who said grace—­the usual “For what we are going to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful!” The stranger—­how queer to think he was a stranger here, in this familiar room—­did not care for the innovation.

They all sat down, and Radmore began to eat his soup, served in a covered cup.  It was very good soup, and as he was rather tired and hungry, he enjoyed it.  Then Timmy got up and removed the cup and its cover; and suddenly the guest became aware that only four people at the table had taken soup—­himself, Mr. Tosswill, Jack, and Timmy.  What an odd thing!

They were all rather silent, and Radmore began to have a strange, uncanny feeling that none of them could see him, that he was a wraith, projected out of the past into the present.  It was a novel and most disconcerting sensation.  But no one glancing at his keen face, now illumined with a half humorous expression of interest, would have guessed the mixed and painful feelings which possessed him.